Loathe as I am to admit it now that I do know, I have to say that I'd
never heard of Hayim Nahman Bialik until Mr. Hadari contacted us.
Nor, I suspect, have many of you. This is an injustice, one that
Mr. Hadari's translations can hopefully help to right.

Hayim (or Chaim) Nahman Bialik is considered the national poet of Israel,
even though he died before the state was founded. He is also considered
one of the greatest Hebrew poets ever. In fact, one of his achievements
was to restore Hebrew as the language of Jewish poetry, rather than the
Yiddish that had become more common. Bialik was born in Radi, Russia,
and was raised there and in Zhitomir, by a scholarly father and, upon his
father's death, by a stern and scholarly grandfather. Upon reaching
adulthood he lived off and on in Odessa which, unlike other Russian cities
which forbade them, had a sizable population of Jews (including fellow
writers like Isaac Babel, Ze'ev Jabotinsky, and Ahad Ha'am, a Zionist who
was one of Bialik's mentors). Bialik worked in business, as a teacher,
as an editor, and finally as a publisher. He traveled in Europe and
to what was then Palestine. After the Communist Revolution in Russia,
when he came under suspicion for his writings, Bialik moved first to Germany
and then to Tel Aviv where he was buried after dying in Vienna following
an operation in 1934. Over the course of his career he translated
Jewish folk tales, wrote Zionist essays and wrote his own poems (though
not many after 1916). It was these last that made his name.
And it was one specific poem that made him a central figure in the history
of Zionism.

Living in Czarist Russia, he witnessed at first hand the brutal treatment
of the Jewish people. In particular, he visited the city of Kishinev
(modern day Chisinau, Moldova) after the 1903 pogrom in which 50 Jews were
murdered. Fueled by anger both at what had been done and at the inadequacy
of Jewish response, he wrote his greatest poem, the one with which Mr.
Hadari begins the collection : City of the Killings (1903).
I wish I could find the whole thing on-line because it's unbelievably powerful,
but here's how it begins :
and by its final stanzas Bialik demands :

To the graveyard, beggars! Dig for the bones
of your fathers
and of your sainted brothers and fill with them
your bundles
and hoist them on your shoulders and take to the
road, fated
to merchandize them at all the trade fairs;
and you will seek a stand at the crossroads where
all can see,
and lay them out in sunshine on the backs of your
filthy rags
and with a parched voice sing a beggar's song over
their bodies
and call for the mercy of nations and pray for the
kindness of goyim,
and where you've stretched your hand you'll stretch
it further,
and where you've begged you will not stop the begging.

And now what have you left here, son of man, rise
and flee to the desert
and take with you there the cup of sorrows, and
tear your soul in ten pieces
and your heart give for food to a helpless fury
and your great tear spill there on the heads of
the boulders
and your great bitter scream send forth--
to be lost in the storm.

If it's perhaps the case that this one poem stands head and shoulders
above the rest, it is also true that at his best Bialik writes in just
such a barely controlled rage--earthy, profane, direct, impassioned, accusatory,
even apocalyptic. Even at a hundred years remove, it's easy to see
why this poem should have had such an effect on world Jewry. It does
not merely recount a tragedy; it challenges Jews to respond to the crime
that was perpetrated against them, and at the time must have struck like
a lightning bolt.

Another that's especially good is : After My Death (1904) :

After my death mourn me this way:
"There was a man--and see: he is no more;
before his time this man died
and his life's song in mid-bar stopped;
and oh, it is sad! One more song he had
and now the song is gone for good,
gone for good!

And it is very sad!--a harp too he had
a living being and murmurous
and the poet in his words in it
all of his heart's secret revealed,
and all the strings his hand gave breath
but one secret his heart kept hid,
round and round his fingers played,
and one string stayed mute,
mute to this day!

And it is sad, very sad!
All of her days this string moved,
mute she moved, mute she shook,
for her song, her beloved redeemer
she yearned, thirsted, grieved and longed
as a heart pines for its intended:
and though he hesitated each day she waited
and in a secret moan begged for him to come,
and he hesitated and never came,
never came!

And great, great is the pain!
There was a man--and see: he is no more,
and his life's song in mid-bar stopped,
one more song he had to go,
and now the song is gone for good,
gone for good!

Personally, I found the quality of the pieces to be uneven, but I like
those two, and several others, very much. From his own comments in
the Translator's Note and from Dan Miron's Introduction, it sounds like
Mr. Hadari has focussed more on capturing the spirit and the rhythms of
the poems, than trying to artificially preserve exact rhymes and wordings
:

If a poem is mostly words--and fancy words at that--there's
precious little there. What I look for is attack, as Derek Walcott
would put it--
it's not enough to know what the word means, though
that helps; one needs to also get a sense of the spin on the word--so that
if I take liberties
with the translation, to take the necessary liberty
of translation that results in the flight of the new poem, I must have
a sense of the bias
of the material; as may be the case in the treatment
by the novelist of historical material, or indeed the treatment by a historian
of that same
material--he uses historical material but it's the
bias of his treatment that's interesting, just like the historian's choice
of facts determining the
portrait; so with the poem, if the feeling charging
the words is absent, if the feeling in fact doesn't overwhelm the language,
like a current
making the touch of the actual line dangerous, there's
no poem to prepare--no song that can be rephrased in English; the translator
is, finally
a harmonizer with the lead vocal; in the prime moments
he is reproducing the singer, in the same key, with variations, in another
language.
That is the problem, to find the same rhythms, near
the same sense, and with the right emotional current. If there's
no current, how can you
possibly begin to raise your voice? Let alone
if the words resist comprehension, and the rhythm stutters.

Not knowing the originals, nor any Hebrew, I've no idea how successful
he's been in this task, but I do know that Mr. Hadari's translations tap
into a rich emotional current and get you to raise your voice. Whether
or not it's precisely Bialik's spirit, they're certainly spirited.
Mr. Hadari's done a great service by making the poetry of Bialik accessible
to the wider audience the great poet deserves.